Chesney, however runs around like a spazz, fetching and retrieving and generally acting goofy. Until she finds the bag of sweet potatoes, and if you aren't quick enough, you will notice it is too quiet. Quiet like, "what are my children doing" quiet. Only my kids are usually in bed, and Chesney can usually be found quietly noshing on a sweet potato. So, if you happen to notice puncture marks in your sweet potatoes when you are at my house, I have no idea how they got there.
|This is Chesney's painful attempt at "stay." I assure you every fiber of her being want to dash up to me, then crawl between my legs and lay down. It's her safe spot.|
Anyway, sometime between the hours of 5:30 and 7:00am, I let the dogs out. The time is now gloriously fluid because A)have I mentioned I only go to work twice per week now and B)Chesney's bladder is a little more able to take a longer sleep in.
As I let the dogs out, an amazing cycle begins. A cat jumps over both dogs as they scramble out the back door. Then, if the cat is Oliver, he runs to the front door and meows. Now, this makes little sense to me as he just came from the BACK door, but now he wants out the front door. Although, why it surprises me is ridiculous. He meows at the gate to the yard if I'm outside too. But I don't blame him. Would you rather scale a chain link fence, or let your human open the gate for you? Anyway, I let his majesty out the front door.
As I go into the kitchen to start up my Keurig, invariably I hear a chirruping "meow." That would be Misty. The ruckus at the back door has woken her. I open the door and ask "How do you get in here every night? Every night I put you both OUTSIDE, yet one or the other finds their way BACK in the garage before I get up." You see, the cat in the garage, and the cat outside rotates. I never know if I will see a streak of gray sleekness leap over the dogs, or a mass of black and white fluff.
It kind of keeps things fresh, y'know?
So, in this particular example of the morning rotation, Misty is in the garage. And she is using her chirruping meow. I open the door, because I'm stupid, and she runs in the house, weaves herself around my legs, then proceeds to the front door, where I have just released Oliver, and lets out a long, plaintive, raspy "meeeeoooooow." Of course, the kids are still asleep about 60% of the time at this point. Or at least, they are PRETENDING to be asleep as they do not want to leave the comfort of their warm beds. So, in order to give my little angels a few moments more shut eye, I open the door to let Misty out. Because apparently I have no authority over the cats in this house. I mean, I put them out every night. Every morning at least one is in the garage, demanding to be released.*
|Oh, don't let that calm demeanor fool you. This cat outright talks to you. And if she doesn't get her way, she talks and talks and talks until you just give in and do whatever it is she wanted in the first place.|
You know what happens next, right? Oliver runs right into the house, seeing as I have not filled his food dish, and that was the only reason he wanted on the front porch in the first place. Now the thing with Oliver is this: He owns a human. Well, he owns three technically. Because Bookworm takes no ownership of him whatsoever, and I scratch him when I fancy, and Brent pretty much dotes on him. But Popcorn?
Oh, he OWNS her. She knows it. He knows it. Shoot, the whole family knows it.
Well, upon discovering that I have not filled his food dish as was his wont, he dashes back into the house. Gentle Reader, let it be known that I NEVER fill the food dish of any animal in this house unless my children are gone. So why he considers this a surprise every single morning is a mystery. However, he is greatly offended. And he knows exactly who to go tattle to. He pussy foots his fluffy self right past me, makes a persnickety left at the piano, and heads directly to his child. He prances into her room, meowling his strangely dainty meow for an 18 pound ball of fluff, and hops onto Popcorn's bed.
|Here is Mr. Flufferpants himself, surveying his child's domain|
She promptly picks him up and carries him...
To the garage. Where she shuts the door, then goes to her room to get ready for school.
As I typed this post, I kept having one thought buzz around my brain "The definition of insanity is repeating the same thing over and over yet expecting different results."
For the life of me, I can't tell you who the insane one is.
*Gentle Reader, the magic of the cats in the garage has turned out to not be magic at all. It turns out that as Brent leaves through the garage, then out the door to the back yard through the garage, at least one cat darts in. And then plaintively meows. And then he feeds them. IN THE GARAGE. The issue with this is that I was scolding the girls for WEEKS that they had better stop feeding the cats in the garage so the cats would quit dashing in every time the door was opened. Of course, they denied feeding the cats. "Then how does the bowl of food keep appearing?" Oh, Gentle Reader, the culprit was found out. And then I learned that not only do I have no authority over the cats in my life, apparently I have none over my husband who can't stand to hear their pitiful wails at 4:30 in the morning.